All You Need
by Xian Chan
Summary: Troy drops out of University of Albuquerque and moves halfway across the world to find himself. Instead, he ends up finding the boy no one has seen or heard from in two years. Good and bad times ensue. Slash. Post-HSM2/Pre-HSM3. Tryan. TroyRyan.
1. Prologue

**Author's Note: **I'm a bad boy. I'm not really supposed to have this up at all. I'm supposed to be finishing other stories. But there is something in me that can't help it. I suppose to keep some variety in my life.

**Disclaimer****: **For this and the chapters to follow: I don't own High School Musical and am not making any profit off of this. It is to entertain others and myself, and that is all.

- - - - - - - - - -

**All You Need**

**By Xian Chan**

**Prologue**

- - - - - - - - - -

"_Love is all you need."_

_-The Beatles_

- - - - - - - - - -

What was it that made him get on a twelve hour, change over flight to London again? Why would he torture himself, suffering through jetlag, uncomfortable airplane seats, and rude air-hostesses? Because after the horrible flight he had, he rued his decision to drop school, pick up and move to London.

He'd only been in his sophomore year of college and of course, he was doing great. Once again he had been proclaimed the star player of the basketball team. His grades were acceptable. He was happily single. He had been well on his way to playing professional ball but for some reason everything he did felt empty. There was an exceptionally large hole in him that couldn't be filled with the things he loved anymore. Not even Gabriella–girlfriend turned best friend–could fill the gap. So he did the best thing he could think of. To avoid the issue altogether and get as far away from his 'problems' as possible. And how much farther could you get from Albuquerque, New Mexico than Europe? London, England to be precise.

If he weren't in such a foul mood, Troy would be ecstatic. Elated. Overjoyed even. However, he wasn't. What he was, was tired, depressed, and frustrated. Here he was, dragging his shit through Heathrow Airport probably looking like death warmed over. What was supposed to be an hour change over in Miami turned into a six hour flight delay due to torrential rain. The whole time in the air, Troy couldn't sleep a wink, and the flight attendants did practically nothing to alleviate his pained journey, despite the fact that his ass had been perched in a first-class seat for nearly nine hours from shore to shore.

After getting off the damnable plane, Troy had to wait an hour and a half for his four bags (basically everything he owned) which only made his mood worse. He could tell by the way that people avoided looking him straight in the eye, or carefully moved around him when passing that he most likely had a dark expression on his face. One that said, 'the next person to even utter a syllable near me will come to a complete and painful demise'.

"Troy!"

A smile instantly settled on the brunet's lips as he heard the familiar voice hollering across the arrivals lobby. Okay, maybe not the _that_ person. The _next_ one. Standing only a few meters away in the crowd of waiting people was a rather tall, curvaceous, woman in her late sixties. Aunt Hazel. Troy had always loved his great aunt. His grandmother's younger sister. She had a rather bluntness to her that shone through in her appearance. Her crystal blue eyes so typical of his mother's side of the family, glimmering with her usual joviality with a hint of mischief.

He pushed his baggage towards the woman, still smiling even though he felt like a truck had just ran him over.

"Troy, darling. How are you doing," the woman embraced the even taller brunet boy. She stepped back a bit, examining Troy from head to toe while clutching his shoulders. "Well, even if I loathe it, basketball has been doing you some good." She squeezed him into another hug. "Let's not just stand here, darling. Let's get a move on."

The woman led Troy through the crowded arrivals lobby, in which he had to dodge a number of annoying travelers (some with their children) the whole time trying to keep control of the damned baggage cart, all four of whose wheels pivoted. Whoever thought of placing four pivoting wheels on a cart rather than the standard front two was either extremely daft or horribly sadistic. Or both. It was the one inefficient thing about English airports and the one thing that was grating the last of Troy's sanity. He didn't need to be fighting to keep his cart going straight when his nerves were tender after an international flight. No one did.

By the time they reached the car park (as Aunt Hazel kept reminding him, as parking lot was an Americanism) Troy wasn't sure he would be able to survive his first hour in London much less his first day, further his first day. Or first week, or month, or even year.

- - - - - - - - - -

"Open the window, Troy, darling," his aunt said as they stopped in front of a stop light. Troy remembered that 'open the window' was code for 'I'm going to have a cigarette, and I don't like the smell of smoke in the car's upholstery.' So he did as told and watched his aunt take a cigarette out of her silver case and light it up while rolling down her own window. It must have taken years of practice to make it look that easy.

"So, you dropped out of university," Hazel got straight to the point. She was never one to beat around the bush, or delay inevitable conversations.

Troy shrugged. "I wasn't happy with how everything was going, even if it was all going perfectly. Everything felt hollow and I just needed to get as far away from Albuquerque as I could. So, London seemed the best choice."

"Aren't you a little young to be having a mid-life crisis," Hazel smiled at Troy while she began driving once the light turned green. He shrugged again and looked out his window, leaning his chin on his palm.

"It's not a mid-life crisis," Troy rolled his eyes. "It's...an early epiphany."

Hazel laughed while blowing out smoke. "One that makes you quit school and doing what you love to relocate your whole life to the other side of the world?"

"Yes," he answered flatly. Why did everyone seem to like asking him that question? "I needed a change."

"And what a change you've made. A life changing change."

Troy sighed and rubbed his eyes. "We'll see."

- - - - - - - - - -

**Review, review, review. I'll do my damn'dest to keep this fandom alive. I don't care if I'm a sporadic updater, I won't ever leave Troy and Ryan alone. That being said, your thoughts and feelings? **

**I have a thing for far-fetched ideas. I like to make them do-able. **

**Comments and criticisms always welcome.**


	2. Places

**Author's Note:** Apologies for the extreme lack of activity on my part, as well as the almost inordinate amount of Original Characters to come. But hey, that's what happens when you involve only two characters from a fandom in a totally different environment nowhere near their origins. I just hope I don't go _too_ overboard with them, and that you don't hate them.

And I'll be putting a little date-stamp at the bottom for reference, for myself, and for anyone who might want it.

**Disclaimer:** Also for this chapter and chapters to come. I do not own any merchandise, franchise, store, designer label, brand, club, venue, celebrities, etc. mentioned throughout the story, and am not intending to profit from any of it. Please don't sue me, as I neither have the time nor the money.

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**All You Need**

**Chapter One: **Places

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"_Love is all you need"_

_-The Beatles_

_- - - - - - - - - -_

London, despite what many people like to think, is actually quite a small city. He was pretty sure that anyone could walk from one side of the city to the other (any direction) in less than twelve hours. If you walked in a straight line, of course. By the time Hazel had finished her cigarette she had driven well into Greater London, and was heading toward the center. Or near the center anyway. At the next stop, she lit another cigarette and continued to make small talk with him about his parents, Albuquerque, and his time spent at university...before he left obviously.

Aunt Hazel, was Lucille Bolton's aunt, which technically made her Troy's _great_-aunt. And honestly, she _was_ great. Hazel had been a model during the early sixties to pay for medical school, and then after she got her doctorate she turned into a hippie. She had played in a folk band. And followed the Rolling Stones on tour. She'd surfed in Australia where she met her first husband. She'd been married three times (all to rich older men who left her more than enough money when they died). She spent a decade traveling across Africa and Asia aiding all the impoverished communities she could with her last husband and had met the queen a year ago. Now she was apparently on the invite list to every royal function that took place during the course of the year. Troy doubted she went to any of them.

And yet, she still cursed like a sailor and smoked almost a pack a day. Needless to say, she was Troy's favorite aunt. Hazel was everything he aspired to be. A free spirit.

"How is your mother?"

"Didn't you ask me that already?"

"Stop being so fucking cheeky and answer my question, Troy-boy. I asked before, but you avoided answering."

Troy shrugged. Jack and Lucille Bolton were the furthest thing from his mind at the moment. He was pissed at them, and kept telling himself that it had nothing to do with the fact that they both disagreed with his decision to drop college and basically gave him no help when he wanted to move to England. They told him he wouldn't survive in London. He wasn't ready for real life. Everything that had happened to do with his move thus far had been by generous donation from Aunt Hazel.

"She's fine," Troy blankly answered. Thought, he supposed she did inadvertently help him in some way. Lucille was born in Kent, an area outside Greater London. She had moved to America when she was little, but she was still British. There was a law in England, that said any child born to a British mother outside of the United Kingdom, still has a right to British citizenship. Just as long as they claimed it before the child turned sixteen.

Luckily enough, Troy had traveled to and from England almost every summer since he was three, and his mother had already claimed his citizenship. Which meant, Troy head dual nationality, and could travel anywhere from mainland Europe, America, and the United Kingdom without having to apply for a visa. It made everything easier. He didn't have to worry about going home every six months.

"Just fine?"

"Just fine."

Even if Troy wasn't looking at her, he knew that his aunt had rolled her eyes. On more the one occasion she had said she loved him dearly, but she hated broody teenagers. And he couldn't help feeling bad for annoying her as he wouldn't be there without her. "I just don't feel like talking about my parents," he explained, turning to Hazel. "I'm all the way across the ocean, thousands of miles away from Albuquerque, and I don't want my first day officially living in Europe to be spent small talking."

Silence crept over them, and only the sounds of the busy London streets filled the space. They were crossing the River Thames by the time the boy decided to speak up again.

"Sorry."

"Oh, please darling. They day I got riled up by some teenager is the day I stop smoking."

"Like that'll ever happen."

"You're goddamn right."

- - - - - - - - - -

For someone who claimed to hate the city so much, it was weird to think that Aunt Hazel lived practically in the center of it. Well, near the center. Kensington was one of the most expensive areas to live in London, especially when you lived on Knightsbridge. The street boasted world renowned stores Harrod's and Harvey Nichols, and with Aunt Hazel's credit card now firmly in his hands, Troy could pretty much go anywhere he felt to buy what he wanted.

He hadn't even stood in her apartment very long before she had handed him the card, explaining that it was officially for "emergencies". But when you were related to Hazel, you knew that she talked in code a lot of the time and "emergency" actually meant: "anytime you start to have a panic attack because you haven't purchased something or had a little alcohol in over an hour...or sometimes both.

The flat was nice, sitting on the top floor of a refurbished Victorian style building. She shared the floor with three others apartments, but it wasn't so bad. It wasn't too extravagant and neither was it small. It could actually be a decent-sized house if it weren't an apartment. Although, Aunt Hazel had somehow managed to keep the place looking sparse and uniformly clean despite all the things she accumulated over the years. Then again, having a huge mansion in the countryside helped when you wanted to clean out your living space every now and again. The brunet was standing in the middle of the foyer where the sun poured in like liquid light. To his right, was the walled off living room, dining room, conservatory, and kitchen. To his left was the three bedrooms and the "public" bathroom.

Aunt Hazel was lucky in that she had owned the flat since her first husband. It had been hers for nearly forty years and it didn't look a day past the last fashion season. Troy had to give his aunt credit, she could keep up.

The woman rushed out of the bedroom quarters, another cigarette firmly between her lips, the smoke trailing behind her as she pushed Troy along to his room. She had helped him unpack, chatting about the latest politics and recent happenings in "Londontown". Then she tugged him along into the kitchen so he could help make dinner.

Troy was in the middle of chopping onions for the soup when Aunt Hazel started to tell him about the neighbors. "The ones across from us moved in a few years ago," the woman scoffed while she checked the frying pan of ingredients. "They're a married couple intent on being the next Tony and Cherie. Totally obsessed with their careers. The husband's a lawyer and the wife's a businesswoman. She brings in all the major money, and if she fucks up, he stands in as her attorney. I'm convinced that they both have a branch shoved so far up their ass their tasting wood. They're so tight ass, that they rummage through the whole floors garbage to make sure we're all recycling properly."

The brunet boy chuckled, throwing the onions into the pan, relishing in the sharp sizzle that sounded throughout the room, and then going on to the chicken cutlets.

"The other one across from us, further down the hall is a broody World War Two exile from Germany. I wouldn't bother him much, as the bastard is horribly grumpy. He doesn't take well to visitors," Hazel smiled lightly, probably speaking from experience. Only she could find amusement in visiting an old grumpy man. Hazel probably only visited to annoy him. She continued, "and next door is the flaming homosexuals that moved in around the same time that 'Tony' and 'Cherie' did. If I'm not around, I'd advise you to ask the one of the nice boys who lives next door. They'll help you with anything, really."

Troy took a mental note, that if he ever needed anything, to just ask 'one the of nice boys next door', and not the crazy German man or the psycho power-couple. Maybe he'd just leave the sugar-borrowing to Aunt Hazel? That seemed to be the safest option.

- - - - - - - - - -

His first week had gone by rather fast, considering that he wasn't doing anything worthwhile. All Troy had done for the past week was sleep, eat, watch television, and shop. Jetlag had only lasted a day, and he was functioning on Greenwich Mean Time perfectly fine in less than twelve hours. Usually he'd wake up around ten in the morning and Aunt Hazel would be out of the apartment, meeting some friends or something and would be back around dinner. Whatever she did during the day, must have been exciting, because Hazel usually came back with a large smile on her face, looking thoroughly exhausted.

After waking up, Troy's standard day consisted of taking a fifteen minute walk to either Harrod's or Harvey Nichols and shopping until he literally felt he would drop dead. Well, shopping was such a broad term. It would be considered browsing, rather than shopping because Troy had yet to buy anything substantial. Sure he had purchased the odd cologne here, or a pair of sunglasses there, but he had yet to buy a new wardrobe. He didn't need the clothes, and would only feel guilty for buying them.

So he browsed. And walked. And browsed. And walked. And bought some Starbuck's and walked some more.

The difficulty was, that when you felt like you didn't know yourself, you never knew what you wanted. There was the rub! It was why he had moved all the way out to the United Kingdom, and there was no second grand epiphany, or even an indication of what he wanted from his life. It was an empty feeling, which left him unable to find joy even in the smallest of life's pleasures. Merchandise couldn't even compete with the huge hole he felt was somewhere in his being.

But then he would finished his iced coffee, and then mentally slap himself for being so whiney and emotional, and he would get back to shopping (browsing) to prove that he was nothing like how he felt.

When he got home, Troy would turn on the television and watch tea-time programs, or music videos on the flat, wide-screen TV standing in the living room. He'd wonder why his aunt had subscribed to nearly nine-hundred channels and owned a large, flat-screen TV if she was hardly ever at home. During the evening, they would just usually turn on some music and eat dinner, and his aunt would go straight to her bedroom. As far as Troy knew, there wasn't a television in her room, so for all intents and purposes, Aunt Hazel was wasting money on Sky Satellite and Cable TV.

Ironically, even though there _were_ nine hundred channels to choose from, there was never anything to watch. So Troy would just turn on MTV and zone out. Aunt Hazel would come home to find her great-nephew in an open-eyed comatose, staring at whatever bullshit was on screen, whether it be My Super Sweet 16 or Madonna's latest music video. It had gone like that for six days, and looked like it would run into its seventh.

Today was no different. Troy had decided to not even leave the flat that day, and he ended up just sitting on the couch, watching soccer.

"_Football,"_ he could hear his aunt correct him as if she were there. _"Goddamn, bloody football, you silly American boy."_ Hazel had a tendency to beat the British sayings into Troy's head, whether he liked it or not. Though, he didn't mind. But unfortunately, Troy didn't understand which team was what, and couldn't really get into the game. He flipped the channel to a rather recent movie and settled into it.

It wasn't until lunch that the movie had finished and Troy moved from his spot. He got up walked past the dining table and into the kitchen area where he rummaged through several cabinets in search of something interesting to eat. Finding nothing, Troy bit his bottom lip, trying to think of what exactly he wanted for lunch. It was hard when you had almost every useful ingredient at your disposal, but were just too lazy to actually make the effort and _cook_ something.

As with all teenagers and young adults, Troy opted to avoid the work he would have to do to eat. He decided to go out and find something rather than cook. Although, that in itself was more work than cooking, but thus is the logic of young minds.

He didn't want to go back to Harrod's or Harvey Nichols, as he'd been to both numerous times in the past six days. The staff might know him by name, they saw him so much in the past week. He didn't know anywhere nice though. The tea and sandwich shops in the area didn't appeal to him at the moment, and he didn't know where else to go.

He would have looked up on the internet, if there was any. Aunt Hazel was getting it installed just for Troy, but it was coming in a few days. And there were no phonebooks lying around, which wouldn't really help anyway, because he didn't have a map to look for addresses. Then it occurred to him, that this was the perfect opportunity to meet the neighbors. Or the next door neighbors, anyway. He'd take Aunt Hazel's advice and only go to the "nice, flaming homosexuals" because she didn't usually embellish her stories about other people.

It was a bit unnerving, standing in front of the neighbors' door, holding up his closed fist to knock. Before the door and his knuckles made contact, Troy paused, taking a deep breath. He didn't hate gay people. That was hardly the point. In fact, he loved gay people. They were great! But to just knock on someone's door and ask them if there are any good places to eat. He'd look like an absolute idiot. Nearly thirty seconds passed before Troy got his nerve up and he knocked the door, the sharp bangs reverberating up and down the corridor, much louder than they should have been.

"_Coming,"_ came the muffled yell. In mere moments, the door swung open to reveal a boy just about the same height as Troy, with light brown, wavy hair and greenish-blue eyes. He yawned, scratching the back of his head. "Can I help you?"

"Hi. Um, I'm Troy," the brunet said awkwardly to which he was given a raised eyebrow. "I just moved in with my aunt next door," he explained further. Words were lost to him now, seeing as this boy had just answered the door in boxers and a tank top, which wasn't totally unusual, but wholly unnecessarily sexy it should be illegal. Near naked people didn't go down well with Troy, as he had a tendency to get excited all too quickly.

"Hazel? Oh! The crafty old woman next door," the boy said, leaning against the doorframe and crossing his arms. He smiled and introduced himself, "I'm Harry. I'd introduced you to my boyfriend, but he's a bitch."

"Nice to meet you," Troy stuck his hands in his pockets, feeling that maybe this boy was telling him a bit too much information about whatever went on in his private life. Or at least it _seemed_ like it was too much information. It was actually more of a subtle hint. "This might sound strange–"

"I've probably heard stranger."

The brunet paused yet again, frozen for a second, narrowing his eyes in confusion. "–Do you know any good places to eat? I mean, nothing too fancy, but not like, McDonald's or something. Just...something really good."

"Oh God. There's good places all over town," Harry furrowed his brow and looked up in thought. "I suppose you could go to Covent Garden. There's a bunch of restaurants in that area as a lot of theatres are nearby." The boy looked at Troy again, putting the smile back on.

Avoiding looking Harry anywhere but straight in the eye, and not lower, Troy nodded his head, flushing slightly. With a rather soft-spoken tone, Troy asked, "you wouldn't happen to have the number for a taxi?"

"Wait right here," Harry said, retreating back into his apartment.

It gave Troy the chance to take a glimpse at the inside without the very distracting view blocking him. The foyer seemed warm and inviting. The floors were hardwood and the walls were painted an attractive red. Not blaring like a stop sign or stop light. But a deep, dark red that reminded Troy of a Spanish rose. A passionate red, that seemed to want to pull him inside. Unlike his Aunt's foyer, which was accentuated by its chic furnishings and modern art paintings, Harry's foyer had a more bohemian style, accentuated by the unfinished painting standing in the corner, the upright piano with sheets music all over it, and the books scattered all over the floor instead of on the half-empty shelves, where they should've been. Clearly, this foyer was just an extra room rather than an entrance.

Briefly, he entertained the idea of moving the black grande piano from Aunt Hazel's conservatory, to her foyer. The conservatory would make a nice place to have tea or something in the evening, as the room was made of glass and the piano would look nice in the foyer. It would match the stark chic-ness that Aunt Hazel was no doubt going for.

He stepped inside slightly. Strangely, he hated clutter. His room had always been spotless, which could have been strange for a boy his age, who was a jock. And jock's weren't considered the cleanest people on the planet. Then again, he did sing and dance, and had once dated the school Einsteinette. That was hardly exemplary jock behavior either. Either way, the clutter seemed to be pulling him in, seducing him into joining the many artifacts of creativity laying around and bond with culture.

"Sorry about the mess," the voice startled Troy, and he almost jumped a mile high. He had the decency to blush, for being so damn nosy.

"My partner is so unorganized. I'd clean the damn place up if I didn't know it would end up the same way tomorrow. Anyway, I took the liberty of calling a taxi for you. Troy, right? Good. It'll take you right next to a Starbuck's near the Opera House. Here's the number, if you need it again."

Troy took the small post-it, trying his best to avoid all eye contact with the boy in front of him. "Thanks," he replied. "See you later." With a slight nod, he turned and started down the corridor.

"Anytime."

The elevator ride down was spent repeatedly banging his head against the wall, regretting ever being born. What was it about meeting new people? There must have been some stupidity chip installed in his brain that activated whenever he was around hot, new people. When he got outside and into the waiting taxi, his forehead was sure to be thoroughly reddened. The bruise probably formed by the time he reached Covent Garden.

- - - - - - - - - -

Covent Garden was bustling with people, locals and tourists alike. True to Harry's word, the taxi did drop him off next to the Starbuck's near the Royal Opera House. Arriving in the middle of a market teeming with shoppers probably may not have been the best plan when you were looking for food. Only because everyone else was most likely searching for something to eat too, especially since it was midday.

Troy wandered the Market, trying to figure out what he wanted to eat. Everything seemed attractive at that moment, and he had probably passed the entrance for the seventh time, after circling the Market building once again. Crossing his arms, Troy sighed almost giving up and just heading to the closest fast-food restaurant. But he didn't have any money on him, just Hazel's credit card. Did credit cards work at fast-food restaurants? There must be some unwritten rule that one had to pay with cash when you purchased greasy burgers and fries.

"Hey!"

Troy's reverie was interrupted by the brash voice of an American twang calling him out from amongst the crowd. He turned around to see a blond boy with short hair charging right for him, with an surprised and somewhat intent look on his face.

"You're here?"

Confused couldn't even begin to describe how Troy felt. "Um...yes?" Some random boy had just come right up to him and asked him such a random question.

"You _are_ Chace Crawford, aren't you? From Gossip Girl?"

"No," he rolled his eyes. If on other person came up to him mistaking him for Chace Crawford, he might hit something. "I'm not Chace Crawford."

"Are you sure?"

It was probably more annoying than someone thinking your someone else; asking if you really knew who you were. And even more embarrassing was that this boy was American. Did all Americans have to collectively make themselves look foolish while they were abroad?

"I'm pretty sure I know who I am," his tone turned a little edgy.

"Sorry. You just look a lot like Chace Crawford."

"I wouldn't see the resemblance, but if you say so."

The boy shrugged and made his way off back to his group of friends, who were no doubt tourists. They looked the part. Clothes that were ten years behind, and only taken out when they went on vacation.

"Troy?"

"Jesus Christ, what?!"

Upon turning around, Troy was greeted with the most unexpected site he beheld. Mere meters away stood a blond boy wearing a t-shirt with no collar, one side falling off his shoulder, and a pair of skinny jeans. Slung over his other shoulder was a black gym bag. This couldn't be who he thought it was. This couldn't be Ryan Evans, who had suddenly disappeared off the face of the earth nearly two years ago. No one had heard from him at all. Not even Sharpay, who might as well been attached at his ass for most of their life.

"Ryan?"

- - - - - - - - - -

**Comments and criticisms always welcome.**

**Posted: 10 August 2008**


	3. I Look At All The Lonely People

**Author's Note:** Oh you guys! Don't jump to any conclusions yet! That's all I have to say. So I started writing this Post-HSM2 but Pre-HSM3. So I suppose most things from the last movie will be disregarded, which makes this an even heavier AU.

**- - - - - - - - - -**

**All You Need**

**Chapter Two:** I Look At All The Lonely People

**- - - - - - - - - -**

_All the lonely people,_

_Where do they all come from?_

-The Beatles

**- - - - - - - - - -**

You don't often expect to bump into a high school classmate you haven't heard from or seen in nearly two years, even in the age of Myspace and Facebook. No one talked about him, or to him from what Troy could remember. And the few times Sharpay visited home, she hadn't even mentioned his name. If he thought about it, though, Sharpay had never really spoken about her brother unless she was speaking directly to him. So maybe it wasn't so odd. And really, Troy had never asked. His thoughts were mostly focused on basketball, homework, and his future after college. At least they had been.

For all intents and purposes, Ryan Evans could have dropped off the face of the earth, and Troy wouldn't have noticed. Which had basically happened. Until now.

To stand in front of Ryan, a boy who Troy had seen frequently during high school, but claimed no real friendship towards, was rather awkward. Sure, they were on civil terms, but Ryan was more a friend of a friend who had happened to always be around. Then again, anyone back then other than the basketball team and Gabriella was pretty much in the same category.

Oh god, don't think about her, Troy mentally kicked himself.

"Sorry I overreacted. There was just…these people had…I mean," he gestured behind him, trying desperately to explain why he had just yelled 'Jesus Christ' in the middle of a crowded square. Though by the look on Ryan's face, he hadn't disproved his apparent craziness. He wanted to cover that blond's small, patronizing smile. "Forget it."

"It's okay…Chace."

Troy blushed. He made himself look like a fool. Twice. Within five minutes. He tried changing the subject as quickly as possible. "What are you doing here?"

"I live here," Ryan said, slightly amused.

"In London?"

The blond laughed, adjusting the strap of his gym bag higher on his shoulder. "Yeah. In London. What about you?"

"I…live here." Technically, he did now. Although, it didn't feel like home; nowhere felt like home anymore. "Too."

"In London?"

"Yeah. in London."

They stood opposite of each other for what seemed like ages. Troy was trying to figure out what to say to Ryan, but he came up with naught. In the past, he'd never said much to the boy. Aside from the occasional conversation about school, or the drama club, or what they were doing during the weekend, Troy hadn't talked to him much. But he was a familiar face in a city full of strangers. And Troy, even if he didn't want to admit it, was happy to see someone he knew. Other than his great-aunt of course. He smiled self-consciously.

"Well, I should get going," Ryan announced. And rather awkwardly, "It was good to see you."

Troy finally found his voice, just as Ryan turned to go the other direction. As much as he enjoyed being on his own most of the time, he quickly discovered in the past week, that it would be nice if someone were there he could hang out with. Aunt Hazel may be cool, but she was still a woman of…advanced age. One who could out-smoke, out-drink, and out-party him. God, he needed people his own age. "Hey, Ryan," he caught the boy's attention. "You wanna get some coffee or lunch or something? We could catch up and stuff."

"I'd love to, but I have a dance class to—" Ryan paused, knitting his brow in thought and looking up the street behind him. "—Actually, are you free?"

"Yeah. Why?"

"If you want, you can come to my class and sit in and afterward we can go eat. Or we can meet somewhere after my class if you don't want to wait around."

"No, no. It's cool. I've never been to a real dance class before." He'd only ever taken part in the sessions for a school play, and although they were probably somewhat similar, one would obviously be more difficult than the other. His stomach wasn't eating itself inside out just yet, either. So he could wait and hour or so for lunch. "I'd love to come."

"Cool. It's just around the corner."

The walk to the dance studio was short. While Ryan chatted with a few of his co-workers and led Troy past the reception desk, he wondered why anyone would name a dance studio 'Pineapple'. They walked up a few flights of stairs, and down a corridor into a studio filled with teenagers who were in the midst of catching up with friends. A few were even stretching. Troy fully expected Ryan to do the same, and join one of the small groups. Maybe introduce him to some of his friends. "What kind of class is this," questioned Troy as one or two people openly stared at him.

"Contemporary and Lyrical Jazz," was his answer. The blond dropped his bag at the front of the room and started clapping for attention.

"People!" Ryan had startled the brunet, who was standing right next to him. He never knew a single word could sound so commanding, so domineering. "We're a month away from your first show," he said as the group quieted down. "And you're all slacking off. Now, where's Julianna?"

It was exactly how Troy imagined a dance class would be like. Everyone was wearing loose fitting clothing, and had their hair tied back. They were either wearing jazz shoes, or had no shoes and socks on at all. Most upheld themselves with a straight back, with their chins turned up and their gaze directed down their nose, as if they were somehow more superior than those around them.

"She said to tell you 'Code Orange'."

The room was deathly silent as Ryan glared down at the floor and crossed his arms. He sighed, "Okay then, before we start, this is my friend Troy." Ryan moved next to him and placed a hand on his shoulder. Troy would have felt comforted if the shorter boy didn't have his eyebrow raised so critically, with such an ominous expression. "And he'll be standing in for Julianna. So be nice, because he can't dance for shit," Ryan said. "At least from what I can remember."

A few of the girls, and even some boys giggled and looked toward Troy, their eyes wandering up and down his body. Suddenly, he wished he had worn more than just a t-shirt and some baggy jeans. But what was more; he wanted to protest against Ryan volunteering him for Julianna's job, and for the jibe at his dancing. He danced just fine! It only took him a bit longer than most people to get moves down. His objection was quashed by the overly sweet smile Ryan gave him. _If only I weren't so nice_, Troy thought.

The blond continued, "Those of you, who I saw stretching when I came in, will not have to do sixteen extra counts for every exercise, during warm-up."

There was a collective groan and even some outright protests as an apathetic Ryan shoved a CD into the stereo and pressed play. The bass of the first song soon drowned muttered complaints out.

Troy wondered what he had gotten himself into. He assumed that Ryan would be taking a dance class rather than teaching one. And surprisingly, he ran the lesson like any other strict instructor. Warm-up would have been easy, if Ryan hadn't been next to him, yelling over the music and correcting his position every few seconds. He did know what a pushup was and how to do one, thank you. He did them almost every day after all. And when Ryan said sixteen extra counts, Troy did not imagine they would be on top of the thirty-six they already had to do. Sometimes the blond would stop at a student who was being particularly lazy and demand everyone do another sixteen as punishment. It seemed the he ran his class like a drill sergeant.

An hour later, each person was covered in gallons of sweat accompanied by the ache and burn of exercise. "Good," Ryan said as he kneeled down by Troy and smiled cheekily to his guest. "Now we all know what happens when we slack off."

"I didn't sign up for this," Troy mumbled still laying on his back, breathing hard and looking up at the boy. "All I wanted was lunch."

Ryan had the audacity to look pleased, and Troy didn't really like it. He'd have to get the boy back somehow. "Sorry," apologized Ryan. "If I'm easy on one person, I have to go easy on everybody else. And besides, you're a still a big strong basketball player, aren't you?"

As true as it may have been, Troy was not prepared for Ryan's exercise regime. He'd expect that kind of thing from his dad.

"Well we have another hour left to go, so come on. You have to take my place while I take Julianna's," the shorter boy offered his hand to Troy, helping him up. "Everyone get into your pairs!"

Troy gathered that he would be dancing the male part then. An hour could never go by so slow.

- - - - - - - - - -

Soon, after Ryan's dance class had finished, he and Troy found themselves sitting on the terrace of a bar called Fuel, overlooking the west side of themarket piazza. It was curious as to why Ryan had asked to sit outside. When they sat down, he found out why. Before Ryan even picked up the menu, he dug through his gym bag and produced a Zippo lighter and a pack of Marlboro Lights. "Fucking smoking ban," Ryan groused as he lit a cigarette up.

"Not that I mind or anything, but shouldn't dancers avoid smoking?"

"And yet you see me smoking, don't you?" The blond drew on the cigarette and politely blew out away from Troy. "Sorry if it bothers you. We can move inside if you want."

"No, it's okay."

After a moment of silence, a moment Ryan spent finishing his cigarette rather fast and lighting up another, Troy cleared his throat, unsure of what to say but still speaking up anyway. "So."

"So," Ryan answered with a brash smirk pulling at his lip.

"So…"

"So," the blond's tone denoted amusement. "What brings the famous Troy Bolton all the way across The Pond?" Troy could hear the slightest of accents from the boy, one he hadn't noticed until now. There was a hint of snobbish, upper-class drawl, with a bit of a London sound mixed in with the American twang. Something his Aunt would call a Mid-Atlantic accent; when you couldn't decide which country you were from, and didn't speak accordingly. Though, in Ryan's defense, it had taken Troy a little while to notice the out of place pronunciation of certain words.

"I don't really know. Change of scenery I guess."

"That's a pretty big change," commented the dancer. With Ryan feeling odd about prying and Troy not willing to expound upon his reasoning, the ultimate question was left hanging silently between them. Why? The sound of the market seemed to fill the space, of people meandering through the square and stopping to watch some of the street performers.

"Yeah. What about you? Last I'd heard you were heading off to New York with your sister."

Troy could have sworn he saw Ryan's eye twitch ever so slightly. He'd hit a nerve without even trying or meaning to, he supposed.

"Well, the best laid plans," Ryan trailed off vaguely as the waiter finally showed up and asked for their orders.

Lunch, to say the least, was nice. They didn't talk much, but Troy felt at ease. The blond's relaxed demeanor was infectious, and Troy found himself chuckling at the stories Ryan was telling him. Of why he was pissed that Julianna hadn't shown up. That 'Code Orange' meant that she was either hungover, tangled up with a one night stand, or both. Listening to anecdotes about nights out on the town, letting the afternoon sun wash over him. The mounting tension that Troy had felt since leaving Albuquerque began to melt away and he could enjoy simpleness of sharing lunch with an old...acquaintance.

It was in the middle of their meal that Troy realized just how little he knew about the Evans. You could learn so much over lunch and a bottle of white wine. Like how utterly different Ryan was to Sharpay; that even though their last names were the same, and they were born on the same day, they shared almost nothing in common other than their fondness for performing and their genes. Whereas Sharpay was brazen, loud and a bit of a diva, her brother seemed more introvert, and hesitant, though still confident. Every now and then Ryan would pause, look down at his wine glass and then back to Troy. As if contemplating his next words. If Sharpay were to say she was "serious," she would probably mean she was committed. Motivated and totally willing. When Ryan had said it not thirty seconds ago during one of his anecdotes, it seemed that he _meant_ it. That although he was being playful and perhaps even a little caustic, there was a still a hint of solemnity to his words.

"So where are you staying?"

Troy poked at his fries, smiling at Aunt Hazel's voice in his head. _Chips, boy! They're called chips! Not _fries_. You live in England now and must live and behave accordingly. _"I'm with my aunt. In Knightsbridge."

Ryan dropped his fork in his salad and raised an eyebrow at him."Seriously?"

"Um, yeah. Right around the corner of Harvey Nichols. What about you?"

"Well, I'm with a friend at the moment. But for all intents and purposes, I live in Knightsbridge."

Well that was a surprise. What are the chances? "No shit?"

"No shit."

"That's awesome!" He had no idea why he was so excited that Ryan lived so close. He _had_ to be close. Knightsbridge may be an affluent neighborhood, but it was small. You could probably walk through it in twenty minutes if you were moseying along. Why his heart was jumping for joy he could not tell. Maybe because Ryan was something familiar to cling to but still enigmatic. Someone to discover new things with and about. A new friendship.

- - - - - - - - - -

"You wanna share a taxi?"

"Sorry, I have to pass by my other job," Ryan had shrugged. He smiled and dug through his pocket. "But we should hang out again. I'll take you for a drink somewhere. Introduce you to my bitchy friends."

"That'd be fun," he responded.

Ryan finally pulled out what he was looking for. His phone. "You want my number?"

"I don't have a phone yet."

The blond dug through his gym bag this time, producing a blue pen. A light blush tinted Troy's cheeks as Ryan grabbed his hand and quickly scrawled a number on his palm, complete with his name signed above it. "Don't lose it," he said as released Troy's hand

"I won't. I hope it doesn't rub off."

"Well. Don't do anything that might make it rub off," Ryan laughed. "But just in case..." He copied the number on Troy's other hand.

The blond saluted him and began walking backwards, "See you later, Chace."

"Bye."

He watched Ryan turn and start jogging away from him, through the market building. It wasn't until the boy was out of sight that Troy waved down a taxi, being careful to open the door with his fingers alone. He kept his hands stiffly at his side, holding his palms flat and trying his best not to clench them. He must have looked odd, but he didn't care. Even as he struggled to open the doors to his apartment building, and had to finally ask a passerby to do it for him, and the stranger giving him an even stranger look, he paid no mind. _Just don't smudge,_ he thought.

When he got home, he had nearly gotten a smack from his aunt for ignoring her and her guests as he zipped into the kitchen to find a notepad and a pen. He mumbled answers to her questions, while rummaging through the drawers. Truthfully, he hadn't even processed what she was saying until he'd written down Ryan's number and checked both his hands three times, to make sure nothing was wrong.

"Huh?"

"I asked what you did today, Troy."

"Oh. I met someone."

- - - - - - - - - -

**29 January 2009**


End file.
